Bring Me To Life
by Becky Tailweaver
Summary: With only flickers of a lost past left to guide him, he must find his way to a home he has never known, to a life he has never lived, to find a truth he may never remember.....
1. Wake Me Up

_Disclaimer: Shaman King and all its concepts and characters **do not** belong to me, and I'm just borrowing them so don't sue! I'm not rich anyway, so it ain't worth your time. _

**Author's Notes:** Arrrgh! Shaman King has sucked me in yet again. Oh well, my brain could go worse places, ne? Anyways...this fiction is anime-based only--that's just about all I have access to right now. Sorry, but them's the brakes, kiddos. I hope you all enjoy otherwise. ^_^ Thanks! Song credits go to Evanescence for their work, "Bring Me To Life." 

(This story is **post-anime**, which means it takes place at a time after the last episode.) 

  
**Bring Me To Life**   
_by Becky Tailweaver_

  
_(Wake me up.)   
Wake me up inside,   
(I can't wake up.)   
Wake me up inside,   
(Save me!)   
Call my name and save me from the dark._

  
**Part 1: Wake Me Up**

Awareness of being awake brought with it a world of pain. 

Everything centered in his head, radiating in white-hot throbs through the rest of his body. There were voices he could not make out, loud and muddled at the same time, and he could not tell if they were real or imagined. They were all around him, insistent. Shouts, whispers, screams, thunder... 

He felt things on his skin, and he couldn't tell if they were true touches or merely phantoms of his own pain. There were hands--gentle fingers, and hard fists. A wave, a calm touch, then painful blows, sharp cuts, burning fire... 

There were faces in his vision, and he wasn't sure if he was dreaming. So many faces, twisted in hatred or fear--maybe they were the source of all the voices. They were all so angry, or frightened, or despairing... 

He saw eyes--dark eyes full of black flames and rage and sorrow. There was a great churning light...then a figure of red that soon shone gold...then a shaft of silvery blue that cut through everything and sent it all into blackness... 

Awareness brought pain, and he didn't know why he hurt. Everything flickering around him made it hurt even worse, and he welcomed the blackness. He welcomed the cessation of the noise, the sensations, the faces, the chaos. The pain that pounded through his mind lessened as he let everything wash over him and pass from him, dropping away like a heavy burden that he willingly released. 

Trying to hold on, trying to grasp it all--it made agony shoot like knives, and the effort was too much, so he just let it all go... 

It was quieter in his mind, in the warm empty darkness, with no voices, no faces, nothing at all... 

Quieter...but somehow there was still a touch, still a voice. Hadn't he pushed it all away? Why was he being tormented? The darkness was more comfortable, falling away from the pain...but there was a touch, insistent hands, a voice that became distinct. Was there a face? 

He wasn't sure, but it occurred to him that perhaps the best way to find out was to _open his eyes_... 

Once he recalled how to do that, precisely, fluttering open his eyelids made the throbbing jolts center behind his eyes. It was too bright--light hurt, and brought with it a flash of a roiling pillar of luminescence, as well as shooting pains through his skull--so he shut his eyes tight with an indrawn breath. 

The voice was still there. Why couldn't he make out what it said? Or maybe he could, he wasn't sure. There were words, but he couldn't understand them. They were gibberish, making no sense at all...couldn't they talk like a normal person...? 

He tried his eyes again, getting no flashes this time but still overwhelmed by the brightness. It was daylight--the sun overhead. Something blurred into view above, a shadow he could not make out against the brilliance--a head-shape, a moving mouth to accompany that nonsensical voice. He could not make his eyes focus, but that man had to be saying _something_. It had to be important, if that man kept talking at him, nudging at him... 

He closed his eyes again. 

Wait. There were words. Those words had meaning. 

Something _clicked_, almost painfully, as it came to him that the man was speaking in another language. 

But...somehow he knew that language, didn't he? 

"...you still with me, kid? Hang in there--stay awake, okay?" 

The voice was suddenly clear. The words made sense. He barely opened his eyes yet again, bleary, unable to focus. The man was still kneeling over him, hands working on something....cloths? Bandages? Trying to help him, then...trying to make this pain go away... 

"...hey now," the man kept talking, "don't you go and pass out again. You better stay with me, kid, don't you die on me now..." 

He managed a faint moan in reply. His breath hitched when the man moved one of his arms, apparently to wrap it in another piece of whatever that cloth was. It hurt abominably, especially near his shoulder--a deep ache that infomed him something was probably broken. He didn't know how he knew. 

With all the pain he was swimming in, it was impossible to tell exactly what hurt and what didn't until one or another of his aches yelped when the man did something. It was so hot...was it the sun, or was it just his own pain? 

"...guess that's the worst of the open wounds," the man went on, obviously talking just to keep his attention. "I'm no good at this sort of thing, but I know a hurt man when I see one. You still with me, kid? Good, good...I know I shouldn't move you, but neither of us is gonna last long out here in the desert under the sun. As long as you don't bleed to death on me, you'll make it..." 

All he could manage was another soft moan, trying to stay focussed on the blurry face of the man. 

"Now just wait here, I'm gonna go get a blanket and set things up. Don't you drift off, kid, you stay awake!" 

The man's shadow vanished from overhead, and the sun was too bright so he shut his eyes again. Footsteps crunched rapidly away, and he was left alone. 

At least now there was blessed quiet and stillness. It helped the throbbing lessen. There were no voices, no faces, no sensations--nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

He did not know why that was strange, but something in him knew it was. This nothingness...should have been filled with something. _Anything_. There was a void here, where those faces and voices had once been--faces and voices that even now he could not bring back; they slipped through his fingers like water, and he could not recall them. He only knew that once, they had been there--_something_ had been there--but now, they were not. 

They were gone into the darkness where he had pushed them, lost them, to escape the agony. Now they were beyond his reach, and he hurt too much, and he could not even remember where he'd thrown them away or how to go back and find them. It was _all_ slipping through his fingers, so hazy; he was losing pieces even as he tried to grasp them--he could not even remember if there _had_ been voices, or if there _had_ been faces... 

...blackness was encroaching again, filling everything with nothing... 

"Hey--hey! Don't quit on me now, kid! Hang on, I've got the blanket." 

The voice jerked him back from the edge like a rope, making him gasp. Eyes open once more, he could see the shadow above him--something fuzzy and soft was laid over him, taking away some of the heat of the sun. 

"Okay now...take it easy, I've gotta pick you up. It's not the best idea, I know, but I can't do anything else out here--gotta get you to a hospital..." 

Thick arms tucked the blanket further around him as they carefully moved him--moving beneath him, jostling him. It tore a rasping cry from his throat as the motion brought a hideous throb to his temples and a twisting agony through his shoulder. 

"...shit, I'm sorry kid, hang in there..." 

The man's voice was concerned, full of consternation and determination. Ever so carefully, the strong arms maneuvered, then lifted him, every motion sending a fresh wave across his body and a new hammer-blow to his skull. Every step the man took was like an electric shock, wrenching gasps of pain from his lips and squeezing tears from his eyes. 

He didn't understand why, but somewhere in the darkness, that apalled him. 

The man's steps ceased, and the movement changed--bringing with it a whole new set of pains and jolts and white-hot bursts. He cried out again as he was shifted, laid down on something soft--the seat of a car, padded up with more blankets so that he was half sitting up, diagonal across the seat. A bench seat...a truck...? 

The tears blurred his eyes even more, and he couldn't tell. It hurt too much to try, now--it hurt too much for even the blackness to find him. Now, everything seemed red with pain, and it wouldn't let him fall away. 

The car door slammed, reverberating between his temples. Then he heard the man climb in the other side, fumbling to start the engine. When it did start, the throaty rumble chuckled through his skull like a snake's rattle, making him grit his teeth. 

"Hang on, kid, here we go." 

The car began to move. Bumps and jostles decreased as it moved back onto the road and picked up speed, but they didn't go away entirely. His shoulder was a center of fire, joining the constant throbbing of his skull in a way that made his very bones burn. Now that he was not lying down, a sharp ache in his side made it so hard to breathe, helping to drive sharp focus to the raw stings all over his body. 

"Just hold on for me, kid...just hold on, we'll be there soon..." 

The man kept talking, kept speaking reassuringly to him, kept him awake. He focussed on the voice, held on to it like a lifeline. It was an anchor against the pain, saving him from the red-laced dark that lurked below. He did not want to die like this. 

So he obeyed the man. He held on. 

* * * * *

He held on, but it was with the grip of one wearied and weakened by pain and injury. He had lost the battle with the blackness before the vehicle reached the hospital, his last hold fading away even as his rescuer left him to run inside and yell for help. 

He would never remember the emergency room workers rushing out to the parked truck, carefully peeling away blankets and shifting him onto the guerney. He would never remember the hustling hospital halls, the quick, efficient nurses, the masked faces of the doctors that soothed his raw wounds. He would never remember the week of drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to respond to the efforts of nurses and orderlies trying to keep him from falling into a coma. 

Even his rescuer and the agonized moments of his awakening would fade into fragments, the seriousness of his injuries washing those memories away in blood like all the rest. Until his brain could begin to heal itself, memories once lost would never be found--and even then, some would never be seen again. 

The second time he became aware of being awake, he did not hurt so much. 

His hazy memories of waking up in agony made his present dull headache seem quite tolerable by comparison. Even so, it was very unpleasant, and he felt muggy and slurred as if he'd been given drugs. He probably had, and they were what kept that half-remembered pain at bay. 

There was a steady beeping beside where he lay, soft but incessant. The rate of it increased even as he listened; something suggested it was a heart monitor, and he must be in a hospital. 

That's right--didn't...someone...say he was being taken to a hospital...? 

He could recall a man's face, a concerned voice, pain, being carried into a car that drove and drove forever into blackness... 

He was tired of the dark. So he opened his eyes. 

A bland white ceiling greeted him overhead, lit by a soft lamp near the narrow bed he was lying on. Daylight filtered in through curtains he could see fluttering in a breeze from the window. He was propped up comfortably in the bed, at a good angle to look around as his eyes slowly traced his surroundings. 

There was a woman sitting in the chair beside the bed, watching him. He blinked, startled, when he met her eyes. 

She was not slim, but pleasantly built, with dark blond hair pulled into a tired-looking bun and a face that was lined with the worries of middle-age. She regarded him for several moments as he stared at her, a smile beginning on her lips. "Ah...good to see you're finally awake, young man." 

With a gulp, he opened his mouth, but a rusty squeak was his only reply. For an instant, although he could understand her words, he wasn't certain how to _speak_ any of them. 

Suddenly she was leaning forward, offering him a white paper cup. "Poor thing--are you thirsty? I should think so--that gentleman found you out in the middle of the desert, and we've had a time of it getting your fluids back into you. Here you go, wet your whistle a bit." 

His left arm, he discovered, would not willingly move. Dull ache turned to lancing pain as he twitched it without thinking, his shoulder protesting loudly at any sort of activity. He took the cup in his right hand, wincing as muscles complained on that side too, though not so vociferously. The water was cool and sweet as he swallowed it, soothing the parched feeling in his throat and the stickiness on his tongue. 

"A-arigato," he said, a bit raspy, feeling much better once the whole cup was drained. "Uh...thank you." 

The woman--a nurse?--took the cup back, looking pleased. "Why, you're very welcome. Just say the word if you need any more. Now that you're awake, I need to go let Doctor Pryor know." 

She stood up then, showing him where to find the Nurse Call button near his bed, thankfully on the right side with his functional hand. Then, smiling and patting him lightly on the good arm, she bustled out the door into the hallway. 

He had perhaps a minute to look about some more, to look down at himself and the extent of the damage. His left arm was in a sling, his shoulder stiff and too painful to move. He could feel something wrapped about his ribs, tight but not too uncomfortable. There was the sticky-tape feeling of numerous other bandages in various places over his skin, marking where the open wounds had been. 

He'd been hurt pretty bad, obviously. 

The door opened again, admitting the plump nurse and a taller, gray-haired man with spectacles and a serious, pleasant face. The nurse paused by the door to turn up the lights a bit, making him squint. 

"So our young John Doe _is_ awake," said the doctor, coming to the bedside with clipboard in hand. "That's good to see. How do you feel?" 

He stared at the tall man for a moment, swallowing, trying to remember the right words. He didn't know why, but he felt somehow afraid--not quite shy, but uncertain. He glanced at the nurse, who seemed safer, more familiar. 

"It's all right, dear," she said, smiling. "You can tell Doctor Pryor how you're feeling." 

He swallowed. "I'm...sore, but...I think...I'm okay." 

"Good, good..." Doctor Pryor pulled up one of the chairs by the bed, the nurse beside him. "How's your shoulder doing?" 

He glanced down at his left arm. "It...hurts a lot. If I move it." 

"That's to be expected," the doctor replied. "When you came in, it was completely dislocated." He looked over his clipboard. "You also have several cracked ribs, numerous lacerations and bruises, and a severe concussion. It was the head injury that had us worried the most, son--thought we'd lose you to coma any moment." 

Frowning, he reached up, hesitant fingers finding the bandages wrapped about his head. "Concussion?" 

"A very severe one, youngster," Pryor responded. "You took a bad blow there, enough that we thought there might be brain damage and you might never wake up. It's certainly a relief you have. Though I must ask--do you know what happened to you?" 

He opened his mouth to reply-- 

--a _flash_--there was that bright, roiling light--something golden--a huge shard of blue-white brilliance-- 

--and as his temples throbbed he discovered that he did _not_ know what happened to him. There was nothing but a few scattered impressions that flickered and died like candles even as he tried to reach for them. 

"I...I don't...remember..." he confessed softly, dropping his gaze bleakly to the sheets covering his knees. His eyes were suddenly large, almost startled that he couldn't recall. 

"I see," the doctor said. "That's understandable as well. Concussion will do that to you--short-term memory is usually one of the first things to go with a bad head injury. If I were to hazard a guess, though..." Pryor peered at him over his spectacles. "...I'd have to say that you looked like you'd been thrown from a moving vehicle. Impact on your left side--the shoulder and ribs there--and other injuries from rolling on rocky ground." 

He took in the doctor's words, considering each one carefully--trying to see if any one of them would elicit a response. A memory, a flicker, _anything_. 

It was unsettling how nothing came at all. 

"Doctor," the nurse put in, looking a bit solemn, "I don't see how he could have fallen out of a car and nobody noticed. The man who brought him in said he found him...how could someone dump him out of their vehicle and just leave him like that?" 

"That's where foul play comes to my mind," Pryor responded seriously, turning back to the patient. "Do you remember who you were with before you got hurt?" 

He stared at the older man, swallowing hard. Nothing came to mind--not even a flash this time. "I can't...there's no..." 

The doctor's face began to sharpen, becoming even more solemn. "I see..." He glanced down at his clipboard, then back at his patient. "Then we'll start with something simple, instead. When you were brought in, there was no identification on your person. Can you tell me your name?" 

He blinked at the doctor again, startled. "Of course. My name is..." It was right there, on the tip of his tongue. "My...my name is..." 

It _had_ been right there, he was sure of it. But now...more candleflames, like ghosts in the corners of his eyes, gone forever if he turned to look at them--gone, like his memory of what happened, like his name... 

"My name..." he whispered, staring downward again. "...I don't know..." 

It was more than unsettling--it was _frightening_. Everything he reached for--everywhere he turned, he found nothing. Like doors closing, like lights going out--everywhere he looked, frantic, searching, he found empty places, voids. 

"Can you remember anything important?" Pryor asked carefully. "Other names, or places?" 

There was nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing that made any sense, just impressions of things that he didn't even understand. Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, far too small to see any kind of real image. 

He realized he was trembling, the fingers of his right hand clutching the sheets so tight his knuckles ached. 

"I can't...I can't..._remember_..." he choked, gulping, pressing his stiff right hand to his forehead, wide-eyed. 

The emptiness was terrifying. He knew there had to be something there--there _should_ have been something there. But there was nothing. Empty, aching nothing. 

"Oh, you poor dear..." The nurse was leaning forward now, her kindly face touched with worry and concern. "There, there, don't fret. You've had a bad bump on the head. It'll be all right--you just need a bit more time, that's all. Cheer up, now--it'll all work out." 

--_flash_--a voice with words he couldn't hear--an angry face, dark eyes--horrible, horrible rage--a scream that left his throat raw--"_**Asakura Yoh!**_"--the same dark eyes, a sweet, gentle smile-- 

His breath came out in a rush, even as the flickers he'd been given were pulled away again. But a few he clung to--a few made sense. A smile, and a name. Was it _his_ name? 

"_...Asakura...Yoh...?_" 

"Beg pardon?" The doctor glanced up at him. "What was that?" 

He glanced up at the doctor. "Asakura Yoh...?" 

The man's brow quirked. "Is that a name?" 

"I think...maybe..." 

"Ah." Pryor appeared to write it down on his clipboard. "It doesn't seem to be an American name. If you don't mind my saying so, you look rather Asian to me." 

"You know, Doctor," the nurse piped up softly, thoughtfully, "I think he may be here on a student visa or some such. When he first spoke to me, I think he said...um, well, it wasn't English. And he does have a sort of an accent." 

"What did he say?" Pryor asked of the nurse. 

"I said, 'Thank you.'" Once more, he glanced up at the doctor. "I said...'_Arigato_.'" 

"Good!" Pryor actually looked pleased. "That's definitely Japanese. We have a name, and a nationality. Even if you're not remembering your own name, chances are the person attached to that name will know you. That's our first step to getting some answers, my boy--and getting you home." 

He blinked, staring at the older man. "H-home...?" 

"Of course!" the nurse put in, leaning over to pat his good arm gently again. "I'm sure your parents would be terribly worried if they knew something had happened to you. I'm sure they'll be frightened if they find out you've gone missing--it's our job to fix you up and get you back home to your family as soon as possible so you can finish healing." 

"Indeed," Pryor added, standing up. "You won't be moving for a while, young man, until I'm positively certain your concussion is healed. But in the meantime, I'm going to get in touch with the authorities and have them start tracking down your family and guardians. We'll have you home as soon as possible." 

He relaxed a bit, there on the bed, his shoulders loosening--releasing some of the ache that had been building in his left one. "Home..." 

"You rest up, and try not to worry," Pryor informed him. "Concentrate on getting better. I'll be checking on your progress regularly. Nurse Sally here will be helping you." 

The nurse--Sally--smiled as she stood up beside the doctor. "That's right. So you just relax, young man, and let me take care of everything." 

With a final, approving nod, Doctor Pryor took his leave, heading out the door. Nurse Sally stayed long enough to serve another glass of cool water and encourage him to rest and heal, with another of her comforting little pats of reassurance. He managed a very, very faint nod at her, in thanks, as she turned down the lights again and tiptoed out of the room as though he were a sleeping baby. He lay still on his pillows, warm in the quiet, staring at the two little puzzle pieces in his mind. 

_Asakura Yoh_. Was that even his name? Or if it really was...was he supposed to be in Japan? What _had_ happened to him? What horrible accident--thrown from a car or otherwise--had robbed him of everything he'd ever known? 

As he closed his eyes, his fingers' near-habitual death-grip on the sheets loosened, relaxing. At least...soon he'd be safe. They were contacting his family...or at least the people who knew him...or someone who could take him home, who could fill the void in his mind--who could take away the empty pain and tell him _who he was_... 

"_Asakura Yoh_..." 

_  
To be continued..._

  



	2. Sleeping Somewhere Cold

_Disclaimer: Shaman King and all its concepts and characters **do not** belong to me, and I'm just borrowing them so don't sue! I'm not rich anyway, so it ain't worth your time. Song credits: Evanescence, "Bring Me To Life."_

  
**Bring Me To Life**   
_by Becky Tailweaver_

  
_Without a soul,   
My spirit sleeping somewhere cold,   
Until you find it there and lead it back home._

  
**Part 2: Sleeping Somewhere Cold**

Convalescence was slow and steady. He wanted to walk under his own power as soon as possible, so he obeyed Nurse Sally's advice and rested and ate well, treating his shoulder and ribs gingerly and not pushing the healing bones and joints. He also put up with the hospital's routine for patients with head injuries, being awakened regularly through the night to make certain he wasn't slipping into coma, answering what seemed to be silly questions several times a day to ensure that he was not continuing to lose what memory he had left--such as what had just happened a few hours ago. 

Under the cotton hospital outfit, his bruises faded from ugly blood-purple to bluish-violet and then a sickly greenish-yellow that almost made him look jaundiced in large, uneven splotches over his torso and limbs. The bruises on his face waned as well, and the end of swelling and puffiness overall contrubuted a great deal to minimizing his general aches and pains. The severe concussion he had suffered, however, still made any sort of rapid movements an impossibiltiy; if he so much as sat up quickly, his head would throb and he would grow dizzy. 

His lacerations also healed at a good rate, many of them no longer needing bandages, scabbing over completely and promising to leave few if any scars. The ones that had needed stitches also healed well, under Doctor Pryor's inspection, closing cleanly and without infection. Those, combined with the various other cuts, scrapes, and abraisions across his skin made him look like a war orphan, and most of his healing wounds itched like the blazes, but he was well on his way to recovery and glad to be told he was doing remarkably well. 

All except for his head. His inquiries as to when he might stop having dizzy spells and perhaps regain his memory were met with regretful reminders from the doctor that head injuries always took time to heal, and that his memories were an uncertain thing. He might regain everything when the swelling from the concussion went away, or it might take weeks, months, or even _years_ to restore what he had lost. 

That last notion frightened him a little; he didn't want to be lost for years, unable to learn who he was, unable to go home... 

Fortunately, Doctor Pryor was able to tell him that they were making inroads on finding out who he was and where he came from. The state's government was contacting the Japanese authorities, with inquiries about student visas, passports, or travel records. It would only be a matter of time, the doctor promised, before they had the answers they needed and he could be sent home to his family--who were no doubt worried and waiting for word of him, by now. 

When he was able to stand without dizziness and walk without swaying, he politely informed Nurse Sally that he no longer needed assistance in reaching the bathroom, and proceeded to walk there himself. Without having to rely on a male nurse to keep him from falling over, or Sally outside the door making sure he came out again, he could take his time, wash his own face, and try to smooth out his bed-rumpled hair. Doing everything one-handed was a bit of a trick, but he managed well enough. 

As he turned off the sink, he looked again at his reflection in the mirror, critically. It was a young boy he saw there, with dark, dark eyes and hair the color of dark redwood framing his face. It was just like the one he'd seen in his mind, along with that name--_Asakura Yoh_. 

Again, he wondered if that was his real name. 

The face in the mirror was a _little_ different from the face in his memory--right now, his face was paler, leaner, more drawn...but his injuries and stress could explain that. And his hair was a little longer than the memory-face's hair, just brushing his shoulders, falling softly around his face. Maybe...that flash of memory was a moment he had looked in a mirror, sometime in the past? Who knew how much time might have passed since then? Or...had his hair once been even longer still...? 

The memory-face wasn't as tense as the one in the mirror right now, either. The memory-face was smiling--a playful, gentle grin, a soulful glimmer of dark eyes. The face in the mirror only seemed haggard and thin, too serious and sharp. 

Tentative, he tried that smile on for size. He let it spread from his lips to the rest of his face, and found that it fit rather well. Now the boy in the mirror looked so much more like the boy in his shard of memory. 

Maybe that really was his name. Asakura Yoh--maybe that was who he was. 

Asakura...felt _right_. 

The smile felt right too. As he turned out the light and left the bathroom, he kept an abbreviated version of it on his face--not so much a constant grin, but a gentle smile that felt warm inside him along with the knowledge of a name, an _identity_. 

He met Nurse Sally coming in the ward door on his way back to bed, and she smiled in return the moment she looked at him. "Well, good afternoon!" she laughed kindly. "I've never seen you smile like that. What's got you in such a cheerful mood?" 

He managed a rather odd-looking right-sided shrug. "I don't know. I think...I'm looking forward to going home...and finding out what I'm missing." 

"I bet you are, dear." Sally patted him on the good arm again, walking with him back to his bed. "I was just coming to tell you--Doctor Pryor said that the state office called, and he'd be in to give you the details shortly." 

As he sat on the bed, his smile widened involuntarily. "That's great news." 

As Nurse Sally tended to him and left, he couldn't stop smiling. Good news indeed--finally, some word. Information had been found. He was one step closer to where he needed to be--to what he needed to know... 

Waiting for the doctor to arrive seemed to take forever. Being antsy didn't help his situation any--it just made his shoulder ache more with all his shifting around. He couldn't stand to lie down; though his head still made him woozy if he pushed things, he felt well enough that too much bed rest was beginning to grate on him. 

He looked up eagerly as the door opened. Doctor Pryor stepped quietly inside, his face serious and neutral as he shut the door behind him and approached to sit beside the bed. 

"I assume Nurse Sally told you that we've had news." 

He nodded in reply. 

"I just got off the phone with the state offices, and they've been in contact with the Japanese government," the doctor went on. "They have information, but it's a bit confusing. Apparently, both US and Japanese customs offices have records of an Asakura Yoh, but the perplexing thing is that the records show him entering this country _and_ leaving it again. I've been informed that the Japanese government has expressed concerns, and is right now trying to ascertain the whereabouts of one Asakura Yoh." 

His smile melted away, confusion crinkling his eyes. Did that mean...Asakura Yoh was not his name? Or...was there some kind of mistake? Did that mean he was really..._lost?_

Doctor Pryor caught his eye again, trying to look reassuring. "Don't worry--we'll get your family tracked down. The Japanese authorities should be able to trace Asakura Yoh to a residence, and we'll be able to put you in contact with the people there, as well as neighbors, who might know what we're looking for." 

He let out a faint breath of relief. "Then it's...not hopeless?" 

"Certainly not!" Pryor exclaimed. "We're doing everything we can to get you back where you belong. You rest easy and just keep getting better--let us worry about the details. You'll be home before you know it, young man--on that you have my promise." 

He nodded gratefully. Even if his name really _wasn't_ Asakura Yoh, all was not lost. He could still get home--there were still people who might know who he really was. 

As the doctor left the room, leaving him alone in the silence, he gingerly lay back down on the bed, lost in thought. There were many things for him to think about...yet nothing in his mind to place them with--no happy memories to sustain him, no cheerful voices to remember in this dim, quiet hospital room. Nothing but empty knowledge, aching voids, no comfort or solace to be found. 

As he curled once more into the cool sheets of his bed, he felt terribly alone. He couldn't even remember his family or friends--the people who were waiting for him now, if there were any. What kinds of people they were, how much they missed him, how they would welcome him when he finally got home to them... 

He couldn't think of them, couldn't picture them to smile about in remembrance, and the warmth of anticipation paled next to the icy feeling of the hollow places where his memories should have been. He was so lonely it _hurt_, far worse than his shoulder or his head. The emptiness was so cold. 

He wanted to go home so badly, so he could be warm again--truly warm inside; warm and loved and safe. He wanted to fill the void with something--with laughing faces and more of those smiles, with things he knew should have been there but could not recall himself. 

Doctor Pryor had promised it was only a matter of time. 

All he could do was rest, heal, and _wait_. 

* * * * *

Even if they _did_ pick up a lead, Doctor Pryor explained patiently after yet another inquiry, he would not be allowed to travel until he was completely out of danger, with no chance of aggravating the injury to his head. Until the swelling had disappeared, he wasn't even going to be allowed to move about too much; if there was a chance of exacerbating the concussion--or worse, a chance of hurting himself again too soon--he was simply not permitted to do it. 

Things such as walking about the hospital or grounds unsupervised or taking part in any physical games were strictly forbidden. Even though a faint dizzy feeling or a low throb from his head was enough to let him know he was pushing it, Doctor Pryor and Nurse Sally saw to it that he never even reached that point. 

Most of his bandages came off in the course of time; stitches came out, visibly-yellowing bruises became mere shadows, the worst of his cuts closed up and became nothing more than sore, itchy, healing blemishes where the wounds had been. Most of them had healed so cleanly they would not leave scars once the skin recovered. It took an act of will to resist scratching some places, however, and the ones still under bandages drove him to distraction at times. 

Because of Doctor Pryor's concern for his memory, he was subjected to regular scans and tests, each of which was designed to detect whether or not his brain was recovering from the blow to his head. He was glad to hear that he was following a normal rate of healing, and that all his numbers were good. Still, no new memories surfaced, and even his fragmented, empty dreams gave him little to work with, less that he could remember upon waking. 

It was frustrating--and frightening--to be trying so hard, reaching out yet grasping nothing...but he persevered with the hope of soon returning to Japan--returning home, and discovering the truth. 

Partway through his recovery, both Nurse Sally and Doctor Pryor came to visit him with an air of barely-restrained excitement--typical adults, trying to look professional in the face of good news. He could hardly hold himself back as Pryor told him that they'd found something. 

The Asakura Yoh who had ventured to America had gone home to Japan--and, presumably, to an address in Tokyo. So far, they hadn't been able to contact anyone at the residence there, but no one was giving up hope. They expected him to recover and return, and once in Tokyo they would all have their answers. 

Knowing that he might actually have a place to go home _to_ made waiting for his final recovery that much easier--and that much more difficult. _Hope_ became warm enough to push back a little of the cold, lonely nights, the dreams of hospital rooms, vague desert suns, and shattered nothingness. He wanted to fill those dreams of emptiness with something that was _meaningful_, something that would give him a reason to smile in the night, so that he would not wake shivering from the void with tears welling from his eyes... 

The television was his portal to the world, giving his hungry, hollow mind material to work with. It seemed to awaken more _knowledge_ of things, even if his own actual memories remained shaded and blank. Commercials, talk shows, cartoons, sitcoms, TV movies...all the so-called wonders of American programming laid out before him. 

Since he wasn't allowed to do many active things, he had little else to keep him busy--and a foray into some books Nurse Sally offered him proved that his English was a bit slow in the reading department, making the books difficult. His conversations with Sally contained many, many questions, and with time and care she answered him, feeding him the knowledge and attention that he found himself craving. 

It was only a few days shy of a month since his admittance when Doctor Pryor at last pronounced him well enough to travel. After extensive tests and CAT scans, as well as a complete physical and another mostly-fruitless question-and-answer session, the good doctor finally, reluctantly but gladly, told him that he was essentially healed of his concussion. 

His shoulder was another matter; no longer braced but still in a sling, he would have to take it easy on his left arm for quite some time, until it had completely recovered from its dislocation. He could at least move it some now, though much flexing and rotation made it ache and complain. 

Doctor Pryor told him that while all signs of swelling from the concussion were gone, he was still not to overexert himself, stay in the sun too long, allow himself to dehydrate, or play any sort of sports or rough activities that ran him the risk of re-injuring himself. "For at least another few weeks," the doctor cautioned his half-attentive patient at last, with a world-weary sigh at the proven truth that boys will be boys. 

He tried to listen, but he was excited to be counting down the days, the hours until he could go home. He was excited to be able to finally discover what he was missing, but he also felt sad to be leaving the hospital; Doctor Pryor and Nurse Sally had become good friends of his--essentially the _only_ friends he could remember--and going home would mean leaving the familiar world of white hallways, safe rooms, quiet lawns, and food on trays. Though Sally told him that the food outside the hospital was worlds better--he should go home and sample his mother's cooking again; hospital food couldn't hold a candle to that... 

Pryor volunteered to drive him to the airport himself. He was to have a short flight to LAX in Los Angeles, an international airport, and there he would board a plane that would take him to Tokyo where a liason would be waiting for him when he arrived. 

On the day he was designated to leave, Nurse Sally brought him a slightly-worn backpack that was filled with clothing. Hand-me-downs, she explained, from her two nephews who were about his age. He had received one set of clean, presentable traveling clothes from Doctor Pryor and the hospital--but Sally thought he would like to have something fresh to wear if he needed it, and a few sets of clothes to last him a while, in case things didn't work out for him in Tokyo. The front pocket of the backpack also contained a comb, a toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste. 

Somehow, her kindness and care awed him, made his throat tighten up. Already dressed in his brand-new traveling clothes, he could hardly speak as he clutched the backpack and gazed at her, at a loss for words. 

Sally didn't need words--she just scooped him into a generous, careful hug right then and there. It startled him at first--so unfamiliar and unexpected, he almost didn't know what to do. Then, hesitantly, he put his good arm around her and squeezed back, briefly, in a typically embarassed teenage fashion. 

Sally was like...what he imagined his real mother might be like. Or perhaps his aunt, or his grandmother. 

What she showed him...was maybe a little bit of what love felt like. 

When she released him, her eyes were bright with tears. "Now...you take care of yourself over there, you hear?" she said almost scoldingly, mother-like. "You'll...you'll call or write once you get home, won't you? Just to let us know you're okay..." 

With a gulp, he managed a nod. 

"And...I wish you the best of luck," she went on, wiping at her face as she stepped back. "I'll miss you, you wonderful boy. Don't you dare forget to let us know how things go...and tell me your real name, when you find it. Promise?" 

He nodded again, his voice rough. "Yakusoku. I promise." 

Doctor Pryor was already waiting in the doorway. "Are you ready?" the man asked softly. "It's time to go." 

With a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and picked up the backpack. Sally sniffled and laid his jacket over his shoulders, squeezing his right one reassuringly. On the outside, he was ready to go--dressed in simple jeans, sneakers, light-colored shirt, and warm jacket, with his hair tied back to keep it out of his way--every inch an ordinary boy. On the inside, however, he both fluttered with anticipation and quaked with nerves. This was his first step outside the safe confines of the only world he'd ever known since waking up with nothing. 

"I'm ready." He stepped forward, following Doctor Pryor to the door. However, before he stepped out, he turned to look back at the nurse who still stood near his old bed, tears glittering on her cheeks. 

"Sayonara, Sally-san," he said softly, offering her one of his rare, sweet smiles. "Thank you for everything." 

She smiled back at him, and nodded. 

Her smile was another bit of warmth. With a lighter heart and a lighter step, he turned and followed Doctor Pryor out into the world that waited. 

* * * * *

It turned out to be a three-hour layover at the Los Angeles airport. As disappointing--and difficult--as that was, both the flight attendants and the airport employees had obviously been informed to expect him; there was someone waiting for him as he boarded and disembarked the plane, to help direct him where he needed to go. He was more than thankful that Doctor Pryor had called ahead and made arrangements for his sake. The crowds were...overwhelming, to say the least. All he'd seen of the world since his accident was the hospital itself and the narrow window of the television. 

There wasn't much else to do besides shop for souveneirs--for which he had no need and no idea who to buy them for--so he napped and sipped juice during his three-hour wait to board the second, bigger plane for a trans-Pacific flight to Tokyo. 

It was going to be a long flight. He tried to sleep, and did at first--ending up with strange, unclear dreams of imaginary houses and doorways and faceless people waiting for him, seemingly pieced together from various television shows or things he'd seen on the drive to the airport. The memory mirror-face figured prominently, though--a gentle smile, a hand reaching out to him. It was confusing--yet another blurred image in his difficult dreamscape, only half-remembered upon awakening. 

As the time of arrival inched ever closer, sleep grew harder to obtain. He stared out the window at the expanse of shifting sky for a time, finding that a poor substitute for sleep or thought. His mind, weary of confusion, frustration, and emptiness, grew ever hungrier to be filled. He knew he would find his answers soon--soon, as the hours and minutes and seconds ticked away to the rhythm of the engine's hum. 

After what seemed like a short eternity, the transit came to an end and they were descending to Tokyo Airport. When a voice came over the loudspeakers to announce their arrival, his heart leaped up like a dog to a whistle--now, _now_ it was time, he was finally _here!_

When the plane finally came to a stop and the doors opened, he fetched his only piece of luggage--just Sally's backpack, one little carry-on--and disembarked. 

The airport terminal was a bustle of noise and activity, people coming and going every which way--a sea of bodies in which one short, slim boy was easily lost. Wide-eyed, he glanced around for any sign of a familiar face--not that, in his condition, he expected to find many--or perhaps someone who could direct him where to go. He was supposed to meet some kind of government liason here... 

"Hey. Are you the Asakura kid?" 

The gruff voice made him jerk around, startled. "Huh?" 

"I'm assuming you're the Asakura boy, the one all the fuss is about," the tight-jowled man in the business suit replied, looking impatient. "I was expecting a young boy with his left arm in a sling and a backpack. You fit the description." 

He floundered for a second, glad at last to be hearing his native tongue. Even as strange as it felt after nearly a month of straight English, it was good to speak Japanese again. Not that he really remembered speaking it all that much, but it felt...familiar, and comfortable. Much easier to wrap his tongue around, to express his thoughts in. "Asakura--uh, yeah, that's me. At least I think." 

"That's right. The amnesiac kid." The man nodded curtly. "Well, whatever. Get your gear, and let's go--my car's parked in a thirty-minute loading zone and I'm out of time." 

"Ah--okay..." 

Backpack in hand, he followed the heavyset, stern-faced businessman through the crowd, dodging and weaving through the pedestrian traffic where the wide-shouldered man simply strode forth, uncaring, making others step out of his way. He gasped when a light collision with another person struck his sore shoulder, but he fought it off frantically to keep up with his guide. He didn't want to imagine getting lost in this place... 

At the man's car, he declined a curt offer to throw his things in the trunk and instead kept them on his lap, clutched in his good hand, as the man pulled out of the loading zone and hurried off down the lane. 

He hadn't even been here an hour and he already felt uncertain and small. Even if he _wasn't_ really lost, even if he was really going home...the man sent to guide him was curt and uncaring--a messenger delivering a package, nothing more. There was no kindness here, not like Nurse Sally and Doctor Pryor. 

He already missed them terribly. 

He hoped that the family waiting for him would be glad to see him. Even more, he hoped he had someone waiting for him at all, so he wouldn't be stuck with this frowning man--so he wouldn't be stuck with people like this, who gazed at him with such uncaring disdain, as if he was just another problem to be dealt with. Just another lost boy, to be shuffled away to some other uncaring keeper if his family could not be found... 

Sitting in a small, huddled curl as the car kept driving, he clutched his precious backpack tight in his lap and stared out the window at the passing world, hoping they would arrive quickly. 

* * * * *

After a good hour and a half of driving, the car pulled to a stop against a sidewalk curb. Grumbling, the driver peered out at the address plaque, then turned off the engine and got out. 

"Come on," the man ordered, opening the passenger door for him as he shuffled hurriedly to his feet. 

"I-is this the place?" he asked hesitantly, looking up at the sturdy wooden gate, the high, whitewashed walls. 

"I'm told it is," the man replied, stepping up to the gate and rapping on it. "Can't get a damn answer, though--nobody answers the phone, and nobody's returned our calls." 

A shiver of worry wormed its way into his stomach. It was already evening--there were faint stars along the eastern horizon, and the streetlamps were beginning to come to life. There was a chilly breeze, as well, and the night promised to be cold. If this was not the place...what would this uncaring man do with him? Would he have any place at all? Or would he just be left out here alone...? 

"Well, hurry up." The liason had shoved the gate back, stepping through to go up and try the house door instead. 

Gulping, he followed the man inside, staring around at the house and yard as he went. It was fairly nice--a rather large, rambling home, pretty much traditional Japanese. Somehow he recognized that fact--it was like something he just _knew_, like so many other things he'd discovered...things that would come to him as a matter of _knowing_, even if he could never recall anything specific. Such as any other time he'd scrutinized a traditional Japanese home... 

The house was lit up, though, so someone had to be at home. As he came up to the front door with the man, he could hear voices within, traces of music, a bit of laughter. People talking, or perhaps a television--and that meant there was life inside. 

The loud rap of the man's knocking startled him as it echoed into the yard. The man grumbled under his breath about the whole situation, looking impatient and annoyed. "Hello?" he called loudly to the door. "Anybody home?" 

He watched the man mutter and fume for several moments as nothing happened. Then, surprised, he made out the thudding of footsteps as _someone_ from within trotted to the door. The porch light flicked on, and the front door slid back, admitting a mildly curious face. 

"Finally!" snapped the liason. With a glance between his charge and the face in the door, his expression shifted to faint surprise. "Well. I guess this _is_ the right place." 

The one in the door blinked. "Huh?" 

"This is the Asakura residence, right?" 

"Uh...yeah." Again, a perplexed blink. 

"We've been trying to contact you for two weeks regarding this situation we have here; you see, someone was found..." 

The man's gruff voice was drowned out by the pulse in his ears, the hammering of his own heart. The face in the doorway--the boy standing there, who hadn't seen him yet...that boy, relaxed and unconcerned, dark-redwood hair framing a slim face set with impossibly dark eyes... 

That was the face he saw in the mirror, and in memories...a face that he knew, and recognized--and that connection pulled him forward on leaden feet, joy and terror mingling inside him like a whirlpool. He _knew_ that face--it had to be the one...it _had_ to be...the only one he remembered... 

He gulped softly, his sudden movement causing the other boy to notice him. As he reached forward, almost stumbling, the other's voice cut off in what was almost a choke, those dark eyes going from lazy to flat-out _staring_ in a heartbeat--growing wider and wider until they enveloped the pale face, deep enough to drown in. The other boy's mouth worked silently, his whole form gone completely rigid and his expression a mask of shock and near-dismay. 

"It's you..." he gasped, stumbling almost close enough to touch the startled boy staring at him from the doorway. "...you're the one in the mirror..." 

  
_To be continued..._

  



End file.
